The Case of the Confused Angry Girl (and her sidekicks)
by NineStoicCrayolas
Summary: "Death is a depressingly inevitable consequence of life," the telegraph once wrote, and I find that they are entirely correct. [oc-self-insert as Haruno Sakura's Twin]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Naruto_. What I do own is my OC and any derivative of the normal time-line.

 **Status:** Incomplete.

 **A/N:** I absolutely adored _Catch your Breath_ by Lang Noi and I've been super inspired and voila, here we are.

* * *

I don't want to remember how I died. I don't want to remember—and yet, I do. The technicalities of my death are unimportant. I don't want to talk about it, not now, not ever. It's not necessary for me to tell that tale when all I want is to put it out of mind forever.

Here's what you need to know:

I was a girl.

I was twenty-three.

It was cold and dark and smelled of burn plastic and fermenting garbage.

That's all.

The details after that are unnecessary and frankly, unmentionable. I am not the first person who has died, and even if I was, I would not be telling you that story.

What I'll be telling you is what happened after. After I died, that is.

Dying, in itself, was a horrifying experience. I had prepared myself to fade away into nothingness. My consciousness was fading and erratic as I took in my last, gasping breaths and, in the midst of it all, I'd come to the forced realization that I'd die soon. A tentative peace settled over my mind despite…the brutality of it. I'd go to heaven or hell or in between or neither.

Maybe, if I got a hitch to Angel Town, I'd see glorious winged creatures sitting on clouds, and playing sweet, sweet melodies on golden lyres. Maybe if I crashed all the way down to Hell I'd see a fiery pit or a river of lava or a flaming lake. Maybe, I would just see darkness.

What happens after you die Is a question posed through the centuries, the millennia. "Death is a depressingly inevitable consequence of life," the telegraph once wrote, and I find that it is entirely true. What people don't know—or forget—is that…after death, you are…aware, of a sort.

A strange sort of limbo, a…I have no way to describe it.

The truth is, no one knows where you go after you die, after those first few seconds of consciousness, of awareness. No one knows what happens—if it stops, if you stay in that awareness or don't. No one knows—except you.

When I died—well.

When I died, I…frankly, I did not know what I expected. Those horrifying seconds of floating on the edge of _something_ …they never leave. That feeling will seep back into your bones, crawl and inch their way into your mind and hunker down and wait until you've put your guard down to _pounce_ —

I didn't expect much, after I died.

What I did not foresee was waking up afterwards.

For all that I had prepared myself for in those last, tenuous seconds—be it heaven or hell or a gaping void of nothing—waking up was not an idea I had even remotely entertained.

But, I did.

Wake up, I mean.

I came into being when I heard the sounds of a beating heart. The slow push and release of cavernous walls flexed around me. Vaguely, I could hear muted, choked sounds. It sounded a lot like screaming.

I couldn't smell or hear or see very well but here are the things I remember: The sound of the warm, wet cave clenching around me. The sound of a heart.

Two hearts, I later realized.

And then I woke. I was wet and bloody; I could smell the iron on my skin and taste the bitterness of coppery pennies on my tongue. I could feel things around me, vaguely; a heightened sense of situational awareness. Everything itched and crawled. I was as weak as a newborn, and later, I'd laugh at that unfortunate comparison.

I was scared out of my mind.

I don't think I'll ever be able to describe that sort of terror—the kind that people have talked about, that makes your eyes go wide, your hair turn white and your breathing stop.

I couldn't open my eyes properly, and when I did, the light was so bright it burned. For a couple of seconds, I'd thought I'd really gone to hell. The air itched with power so concentrated it rose the hair on my neck and threatened nausea. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into that warm, flexing warmth and never come out again.

I'd been safe there—I didn't know how I knew that, but I did.

Later, I'd realize that I'd given my new parents quite a scare. I wasn't breathing or moving or screaming. I was just small, and wet, and bloody, and still. My chest did not even rise. Later, Dad would tell me that they were scared I wouldn't be able to make it—that I was so small and blue, the doctors nearly gave up on me.

What happened was this:

In my shock, I couldn't breathe.

Someone pressed down on my slick chest. Their fingers were waxy (hospital gloves), but warm and firm, and they splayed over my collarbones and stomach and I thought—for a microsecond— _how the hell is their hand large enough to cover my entire torso_ —and then they pushed down, down, down. The confusion of it caused my mouth to open and—what should have been instinct for a newborn—came rushing to me like a pressing, breath-taking need.

I sucked cold, freezing air into my lungs, and to this day, I still don't know how they made me scream that loudly.

I was swept up into warm arms and blankets and tiny hats and slowly, exhausted, I drifted to sleep.

A niggling thought in the back of my mind whispered something about the bizarreness of it all but I was so tired from it all, that it barely had a chance to form.

~.~

Waking up was like dying all over again.

The world was blurred and gray, all smooth edges and rounded smudges that were unable to be distinguished by weak, newborn eyes. It had been weeks since they'd brought me—us—home. I won't say I wasn't surprised. When I realized that I'd been reborn, I'd gone silent with shock. I was in complete and utter emotional chaos—this was _cataclysmic_ to me.

I still don't know, even now, how I realized that I'd been reborn. There was just some part of me that knew, instinctually, that I wasn't dead—not how I was supposed to be.

Maybe it had been when I'd heard the sound of the two heartbeats, or the cavern walls _(And oh, ew, I'd witnessed my own birth and lived through passing out of a vagina)_ flexing around me, but I noticed.

I grieved. My old life, while not a…pleasant one, was something that had been _mine_ —completely and utterly. Death, I'd been prepared for. A new life—as a _motherfucking_ baby—was not what I'd signed up for.

My eyesight had cleared enough to be able to see my parents' faces. Which—well. That was an… _experience,_ to say the least.

My father was dark; his skin was leathery and cracked, as if he'd spent his entire life on a farm working through the high sun and siestas. He had—I _fucking_ shit you not—pink hair pulled in a high ponytail that fell to his middle back. It was smooth and soft and I developed a love to tangle my pudgy fingers in it. His eyes were a dark forest green, slanted and almond shaped; and smiling. He was always smiling, perpetually cheerful, his lips always pulled in a beaming grin.

My mother, instead, was pale, like the snowcaps on high, winding mountains, with ice so thick you couldn't see underneath. She had thick, blonde ringlets that fell to her shoulders, more often than not pulled up in a frilly red scrunchie. Her eyes were blue and wide—long lashed and shining with emotion. Her cheeks were perpetually red and slowly, I came to realize that she wasn't…well, she wasn't _well._

She couldn't pick us up very well, and she had to rest a lot, her hands trembling on the stove when she had to catch her breath. I worried about her a lot—my parents _back then_ hadn't been very much of parents, but these ones were.

They loved and took care of us. Dad sung lullabies and brushed back hair off our forehead and pressed kisses to our chubby cheeks. Mum, instead, took care of us briskly. She was always moving, always doing something; never still. There was a certain fragility to her movements that made me think that anyone of them could be her last—it made the fear taste like bitter lemon on my tongue, and I tried very hard not to think of anything at all when I saw her struggle.

The most surprising discovery of it all—I had a twin sister.

She was small, like me, with pudgy cheeks and wide, blue-gray eyes, still shifting from that of a baby's to a toddler's. Her hair, however, was our father's. A brilliant petal-pink, like the sea urchins I used to dive for in clear, tropical waters, or the color of crushed seashells at the blush of a gentle dawn.

She was bloody adorable.

My twin was what kept me sane. She giggled happily at me and patted my cheeks and made sure I didn't get too lost in my head. Sometimes, we'd just watch each other and stare for hours, my eyes boring directly into her fluctuating blue-gray-green ones, riveted.

What I hated about being a child was that I was weak. I was dependent on my parents to an almost _unnatural_ extent. My sister, she helped with that. While I loathed having to rely on them to pick me up, to feed me, to bathe me and change me, I was reminded that I was not the only one who had to undergo this. I had her too. And she was just as weak and dependent as I was. At twenty-three I'd finally managed to become self-reliant. I had a steady job. My university degree was not one I particularly loved, but neither was it one I hated either.

The kicker was that I'd been a gymnast. At four, I'd begun gymnastics and I had _loved it._ My body, back then, had been built for strength and flexibility and movement and—this body…well it just _wasn't._

I missed being able to do the splits, saltos and roundhouses with ease. I wanted, desperately, to be able to feel the strain of training on my muscles, to work out until I was sweaty and gross but ultimately _satisfied._

The only thing I could do now was wave my tiny fists around and wiggle my feet. Even making facial expressions was difficult.

But I measured my success by my sister's. Even though I knew I could train my muscles to move how I wanted, I knew someone would eventually notice. I didn't know where I was or who I was supposed to be (I still hadn't learned my name or my sister's and the language they spoke here was thick, jabbing—almost Germanic—although I was trying my best to learn it as well I could) and so I was quiet. I did not do anything out of the ordinary. I was, in fact, the most perfectly average child you would ever meet. Whenever she lisped out words, I copied her. When she began to crawl, I did too. When she could lift her head, I did too.

It was during one of these struggles that I learned our names.

Mother often picked me up and sat me on her hip as she cooked. She hummed softly, as she prepared the sauce and meat, and babbled to me softly. My sister was sitting at the table, propped up in a high chair, palming her broccoli paste.

 _Yeah,_ I thought pitifully, glancing back at her grimace, _I feel you—that thing's bloody disgusting._

"Sakura-chan, eat your greens please." My mother said absently, her brow furrowing as she stirred the sauce.

"No," Sakura—my _sister_ and no, I still hadn't gotten over that novelty—whined. Her face had gone red in anger, and her cheeks puffed out. I was delighted to say that she looked like an adorable chipmunk.

My mother, whose name I _still_ didn't know, turned back to face her. Her blue eyes glimmered with steel and her jaw was set sternly. Immediately, I could feel myself straightening in her arms; my Mum meant business here.

"Sakura-chan." She said sternly. She held me tighter to my chest and I fought the instinct to wriggle in her grip. Her breathing had changed, and I could tell that there was the beginnings of a wheeze that gripped her lungs.

"N-O." Sakura banged her spoon on the table and kicked at the underside. "No. No."

"Yes, Sakura."

Oh, _Sakura_. So that was my sister's names.

 _And just where had I heard this name before…?_

" _NO."_ Sakura yelped, her dark pink (yes, and wasn't that the fucking strangest thing ever? _Bloody fucking pink hair?)_ eyebrows coming together in a furious knot.

My mother set me down at the table, slender hands trembling as she did so, and sat across my sister. Her blue eyes were firm, unyielding, in the bright midday sun.

"Sakura," Mum said softly. "Please eat your vegetables for me. They're good for you. Haruna-chan ate hers."

 _Haruna._ I wanted to shout to the skies and thank the gods for giving me some frame of reference.

My name is _Haruna._

Sakura looked at me _(and wasn't it just so amazing to put faces to names?)_ and I had to hold back my own whimper as I saw the tears filling her pretty green eyes. Her lip trembled and I felt my own fill with tears, and _goddamnit_ why are baby moods affecting me so bloody much?

And then my mum said those damned words and everything shot to hell.

" _Haruno Sakura,"_ she hissed, "Eat. Your. Vegetables."

I had a single moment of breath-taking shock. A moment when reality slammed into me. A moment when I realized _just what that name meant oh my bloody god—_

The world careened out of focus and all I could see was my mother scrambling out of the chair, her face a picture of panic, and the sound of my sister's screaming cries.

* * *

 _!Ihopeyouenjoyitomg_

I'm super stressed about this story. BUt I've been thinking about it for a while, and I _sort of_ know where this is going and well, sometimes you just get that urge. The urge to write. So!Here we are.

Tell me what you think :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Naruto_.

 **Status:** Incomplete

 **Summary:** "Death is a depressingly inevitable consequence of life," the telegraph once wrote, and I find that they are entirely correct. [oc-self-insert as Haruno Sakura's twin.]

* * *

I woke to white.

My vision blurred, and I coughed a little, a tiny hand coming to rest on my chest.

 _My tiny baby hands._

Nausea lurched up my throat and I clamped my lips together tightly to keep the sick from coming up. Trying to breathe in order to calm my thundering heart, I slowly raised my head and looked around.

I was in a hospital room.

I could hear the beep of the machine next to my head, and I felt the crackle of the hospital sheets against my skin. The strange trickle of acute _strangeness_ felt all the more rampant as I noticed the bars on the windows; most likely to keep the shinobi _in_ instead of _out;_ but at the moment I felt trapped, cornered.

I felt like an animal, waiting to burst out of my skin.

My breath was coming in pants. My hands tangled in the crisp sheets. My head felt woozy—out of control.

A whine made its way out of my lips, slipping through the cracks of my desperate attempts to keep calm.

I remembered the exact moment when I realized.

When I noticed.

 _Haruno Sakura_ was my twin sister.

I shut my eyes and hoped to god this was some type of fever dream. A coma. _Anything_ but the reality I had been living _for four months_.

 _Anything_ but the reality that I was…I was a fucking _manga—anime—whatever the fuck—_ character.

I wasn't supposed to exist, not here.

I wasn't supposed to—

Panic gathered in my breast and I felt the sharp _beep_ of the monitor go crazy. My breathing hitched, my hands clenched on the sheets. Hysteria bloomed in my mind like an old friend, and I felt the familiar creeping sensation of an imminent panic attack.

I was hyperventilating by the time I heard the pounding footsteps rushing down the hall, but I could barely hear it over the thundering of my own heart. I was crying; sobbing thick, ugly, desperate sobs, my anguished breaths stuck halfway down my throat, rubbing it raw.

 _(Can't be real—can'tbereal—cantberealcantbereal—notthisnotthis—pleasepleasepleaseplease—)_

 _Please,_ I begged a half-formed notion of a god, _please let this be over—let this not be real._

My last thoughts were that I hoped I would wake up soon, even if it was in that god-awful alley.

~.~

I had discovered _Naruto_ on a cloudy day in September, as I was flicking through T.V. stations, waiting for a cuppa to finish boiling. I was wearing red overalls and a yellow sweater, my absolute favorite outfit ever. The sweater was warm and fuzzy, and my overalls were just enough worn that they had gotten comfortably soft. My knees were scuffed from playing on the beach, slipping over mud-slicked rocks, and I had wind-swept hair and a red nose.

I was nine and a half years old and utterly new to the world of animated shows.

Art had been one of my passions. I loved watching cartoons and animated drawings; the detail and _love_ the artists poured into their work—the curve of the main character's neck, the way they scrunched their faces between frames, how the glistening of that droplet of water shone on that swaying leaf—was what dragged me to the world of anime.

Studio Ghibli had been my first love. _Howl's Moving Castle_ was still my favorite movie, even now.

Art had been my passion. I loved painting and drawing and etching, but most of all, I'd _adored_ moving art. Cartoons, GIFS, artsy movies, animation they were my shit. Watching movies and going to art galleries and flicking through old art was a hobby that took too much of my time, and too much of my life but I had loved it.

There was something special about looking at someone else's creation—something fascinating about seeing it move and breathe and function, even if it was just on a screen.

 _Naruto_ was an indulgence in a time of great need—not a loved T.V. show, and yet, strangely addicting. I liked the potential the characters held, the dormant abilities I could see in all of them. It made me dream. It made me _interested._

But I was, sadly, disappointed. The traits that I had seen—Naruto's darkness and anger, Sasuke's forgiveness of himself and of others, Sakura's anger at not being able to succeed, at always been placed second—everything that I had hoped would be worked on…wasn't. These problems weren't explored, or expanded. The show ended in a very two-dimensional way, and there was a strange hollowness where the excitement had resided.

It was supposed to be a T.V. show.

A _show._

Nothing more, nothing less.

~.~

There were times where I was aware, of a sort.

I heard the movements of my family, muted, in the room. I felt my sister's hands tugging on my hair, her soft sobs dripping down my forehead. I felt my mother leave a shaky kiss against my cheek. I heard my father brush away the blanket from my neck lest I be too warm.

All I could think about was that they weren't _real._

This wasn't _real._

 _Please. Let this be over._

My mind drifted and drifted and drifted.

This wasn't real. I was not _real._

I clenched my eyes and drifted further, until I was surrounded by half-formed thoughts and submerged in dangerously inviting dreams.

 _This wasn't real_ —anytime now, I would wake.

Anytime.

(And so I waited. And waited. And waited.)

 _(Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—)_

~.~

I dreamed of black nights, and sunny mornings. Of sunshine on the sea shore, shining down on pink seashells. The smell of the breeze, salty and free on my tongue. How it lifted my cornflower hair and tugged at the tight braid, cajoling the untamable strands free.

 _(How the locks turned pink slowly, bleeding bright until they had the exact same shade as that sister of mine—)_

( _I have no sisters.)_

I dreamed of darkness and brightness and shades of gray and rainbows.

I dreamed of the alleyway; swathed in heavy shadow, broken glass scattered across the cobblestones. The way the light flickered, the silent scream of electricity humming in my ears. How the wind tugged at my jacket, nipped at my thighs, reminding me of the incoming chill.

I dreamed of my screams decorating the streets, the splatter of blood following behind them.

~.~

A name.

" _Haruna, please, my darling_ _ **wake up**_

I didn't know if it was mine.

" _Haru-chan."_

Broken voices.

"… _might not make it…the chakra…."_

The mantle of the world pushing on me, shoving me down, filling me up so full I could barely _breathe—_

" _Haruna. Please."_

Still, my dreams continued.

I twisted deeper into my sleep, until the monitors could no longer pick up the trace of my fractured thoughts.

" _You must consider cutting the life-support."_

~.~

Sometimes, I stood over that alley.

 _A bird's eye view._

I watched the way I stuttered for breath. The way my fingers clawed at the ground. The way my eyes were half-closed, shadowed in delirium and hysteria, a last scream stuck in my throat.

I saw the fear, smelt the acrid scent of urine. I saw the anger, felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. I saw the betrayal, and I looked away.

( _The screams kept on coming, even when my voice broke.)_

 _~.~_

I was ten again, and watching that station, and gazing, entranced by the colors. The way the characters moved, so seamlessly on the screen. I was in love and bewitched. I _yearned_ for a world that loved, that precise in its detail.

"…It's the promise of a lifetime, dattebayo!"

A smile played on my lips. I tugged my cup of tea closer, and recorded another episode.

 _I don't want to miss anything,_ and for some reason that feels so _wrong—_

Because of course (and here I will smile sadly) this isn't real.

(How I wish it was.)

 _(You'rewrong—bringmeback—)_

 _~.~_

"…We're not sure what could have caused this…you said there were… _complications_ with her birth—what kind?" _Stern. Unyielding._

"It wasn't anything at the time, you _must_ believe me, you must _know_ —we would have…we would have done _something—_ "

"Haruno-san, anything helps. This is something…we haven't seen in a while." _Careful. Cautious._

"…okay." _Soft. Fractured._ _Desperate._ "…she was blue. And small. So, so small. They said…they said there was something wrong with her yin chakra—too much for her to handle. Almost, almost like an—"

"—Overdose?" _Intrigued, ensnared._

" _Yes_ , yes exactly."

"…There is one thing…but it is _rare._ Rarer than anything we've ever encountered—"

"I don't _care_ Fujiyama-sensei, _tell me how to help my daughter._ " _Quiet terror._

"….We must wait. We must give her time to balance out her reserves. Her body has shut down from the stress of her chakra channels. She has too many, far too young."

"Will she make it?"

"…This is the only way you could ever get her back."

" _We're not sure if you ever will," is unspoken._

 _~.~_

There are hands parting my hair, carding through matted locks.

There are lips tracing my cheek, stuttering on the round of my jaw.

There are murmurs whispered into my ear, and I hear, I hear, I hear—

" _Haruna. Haruna. Haruna."_

"Please come back to us."

~.~

There is a bright, incessant light drilling into my eyelids.

My mouth is dry, and I feel the rough stickiness of my tongue against my hollowed cheek. I feel like someone has blown up all of my organs, desperate to remind me that I need to _drink._

There is a pounding throb against my temples, and I feel nauseous, the jolt of my wakening having stirred the sick that threatens to come up.

I'm sweating, and I can feel the way the cloth sticks to my armpits and knees and the crackle of the sheet that follows it. I'm overheating, drenched in sweat, and my mouth tastes like ash and tar.

The whine that escapes me echoes through the room, and I hear a stutter of breaths.

"Haruna-chan…?"

 _(Nononononononono—please no—)_

I groan in desperation—I need _water._

The words that slip from my lips are incoherent, but the person seems to understand what I'm trying to talk about.

"Okay, okay…okay," a rustle of cloth, and then a hand is pressing against my cheek, lifting me up. The taste of plastic juts against my mouth, and I lick my cracked lips, desperate for relief.

I _moan_ in dizzy euphoria as water touches my tongue and slithers down my throat. Hastily, I grab the cup with shaky hands and clench it so tightly I can hear the plastic creak.

"Easy, easy," they tell me; their hands are soft, gentle against my drenched skin. "Slow, drink slowly."

A tremulous huff escapes me and I squeeze my eyes shut, the light still pounding away at my temples incessantly. The sick that threatens to rise dampens a little, and I feel better as I lick my lips and try to cough out the stuff stuck in my throat.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Haruna-chan?"

Dread slams into me faster than a sledgehammer. That name— _Haruna—_ it is not my own. I can feel the hysteria rising, clamoring under my skin for attention, and I want nothing more than to fall back asleep, to never come back

 _This isn't where I belong, you must know, you must_ _ **understand, please—**_

"Easy, Haruna-chan. Easy." They whisper to me, and I feel a sliver of calm slither its way under the maelstrom of panic.

 _That's not my_ _ **name!**_

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to go _home._

The panic envelops me once more, and I feel the slow huff of dread puff against my hair.

My dreams swallow me whole and the last thing I hear is the melodious _beep_ of that god-forsaken monitor.

~.~

"She was awake."

"…Are you…are you sure?"

" _Why didn't you call us immediately?"_

"Calm yourselves, please. It was only for a few minutes. She drank some water…was she speaking before…the incident?"

" _How can you be so calm!?_ This is my **daughter** you are—"

"Mebuki, please, he just wants to help. He's just trying to help our little girl."

"…Okay. Okay. _Alright._ Fine, fine— _fine._ "

"How far was she in terms of development? The average civilian child begins to speak at around four to five months, then walk at around seven. Solid foods at three. Was she hitting all the milestones?"

"Yes, _yes_. God…there wasn't anything—there wasn't anything _wrong_ with her…she was a good baby. Didn't fuss or cry…there wasn't anything _wrong…_ "

"She dragged a little behind Sakura-chan, but apart from that, she hit every milestone she needed to."

"Dragged…behind…your other daughter?"

"Yes—does that—does it have any impact—any meaning?"

"…No. Just curious…"

"Please…please…does her waking up have any…have any impact on—"

"We can only wait and see, Haruno-san. But this…development, has skyrocketed her potential recovery rate."

"…Do you know what's wrong with her?"

"Her brain is…the neurons are developed at an extremely high rate. Almost as if something sped up her development from the normal two years to a meager five…this has happened before…there are ways of dealing with it, if she were conscious. A Yamanaka would be brought in to smooth over the pathways—nothing too invasive, just necessary."

"And her chakra? They said something was wrong with her _yin_ chakra?"

"That's quite normal. Any person who has a higher level of neural development—quite simply put as: their brain thinks quicker and faster than most people's—has a higher level of yin chakra. The Nara have been dealing with this for centuries…there are cures; ways of dealing with the overload."

"Then _why_ isn't she waking? Why isn't my baby awake yet?"

"…Children don't usually fall into these types of…coma-like sleeps. Something must have shocked her for her body to have shut down so completely. Something so upsetting that it made her brain want to re-caliber her body at a higher rate than instead to wait for it to do it naturally…"

"Will she…will she ever wake up?"

"With time, we will see. Again, as she's already woken up once there is a higher chance of her…"

~.~

Later, I would laugh about the irony.

That my body would shut down; the shock of being reborn, the stress my mental state had put on my body, the way that my chakra had gone _haywire_ trying to make up for the balance; and all I needed to jolt awake was just a little _bit_ more shock.

A little bit more hysteria, a little bit more panic to feed into my survival instincts and _wake me the fuck up._

But at the time, I was asleep.

* * *

Okay, second chapter! Hope you enjoy :)

 **Edit:** I know that the name Haruna is repetitive, but it's there for a reason i sweAR

 **Edit 2.0:** FFnet is being a bitch again and I hope that this time, the format I want is in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto.

 **Status:** Incomplete.

* * *

On that fateful morning, Kizashi found himself walking to the hospital, as he had done for months now. His hands were slung in his pockets, a worried frown smudging his patriarchal features. A heavier jacket was sitting neatly over his shoulders, one that Mebuki had insisted on him wearing.

He'd gone alone this morning.

He went alone to visit her most mornings.

Mebuki, for all her strength and tenor, couldn't bear to see their oldest baby hooked up to the machines, lying there, tiny and frail—lifeless, in the hospital bed. She was pale, so pale, always. Her veins were translucent underneath her white skin, and she breathed so softly you could barely feel it against your cheek as you leaned down to press a kiss against her brow.

So Kizashi went in her stead.

As he passed the grocer, he nodded a solemn greeting, and exchanged a strained smile. Kazuki-san said nothing as Kizashi passed by, but he could see a glimmer of pity in those clear blue eyes.

Everyone knew of the little Haruna who had been such a _good little girl,_ and then, to have had this happen to her…a tragedy. Everyone knew of her, lying there, in the hospital room, silent and still.

 _So pale._

Bitterness coated his tongue, and Kizashi once again asked himself _why._ His daughter had been healthy, and smiling; jovial in her nature. She had been born a little too small, a little too early, and a little too blue, but she had been _healthy_ and _good_ and—

Stinging tears burned his eyes and Kizashi sniffed hard, and blinked them away.

He hadn't wanted to leave little Haruna-chan alone in the hospital when they'd told him of the problems concerning her chakra, her body, her mind. That she might not wake up—that she might never wake up.

That they'd only ever encountered this once before and—and…the child…had not quite made it.

He had wanted her to come home. He had wanted her to be comfortable; not stuck in an unfamiliar room, full of pale walls and pale coats and strange, glinting instruments. Kizashi sometimes wondered if she woke; perhaps she would be terrified of opening her eyes ever again at the unfamiliarity. The unknown faces. The masked doctors, so stern and unyielding.

Did she ever hear them, so deep in her slumber?

Did she know that they visited her every day?

That little Sakura-chan cried into her twin sister's hair and screamed when she had to leave?

That Mebuki… _Mebuki_.

His thoughts faltered. He tugged his coat closer to his skin, and burrowed his face deeper into the collar. His eyes wandered, stopping over the ridge of Hokage Mountain, the glare of the sun just blooming over their leaders' faces.

He wondered if any of them had ever lost a child to a hospital.

Mebuki…she worked. She filled her days with little Sakura-chan, and doted upon her as much as she could. If Sakura cried, Mebuki was there with a lullaby and a soft kiss. If Sakura so much as yelped in pain, Mebuki hushed it away with loving embraces and frantic worry.

She brought Sakura-chan everywhere with her. To the library where she tirelessly stacked books into piles and piles and piles, where she and her coworkers then slotted them neatly into shelves with painstaking care and affection. To the grocery store, where she picked out what they had to eat each week. To the market, where her sisters hollered up and down the streets, asking for a better price-rate for their fruit.

Mebuki swaddled their daughter in Haruna's blue blanket and kept her close to her chest, her hand resting on Sakura's back, fingers over her heartbeat and never let her leave her sight.

"What if she stops breathing, Kizashi?" She had sobbed to him once, eyes wet and panicked. "What if our little baby _stops breathing?"_

"What can we do? How—How can we go on without her?" Mebuki had cried.

Kizashi didn't know what to say, and so he had drawn her closer and slipped his arms around her.

He couldn't voice the angry doubt that buzzed around in his thoughts. He couldn't tell her that he spent nights awake, ear pressed to his cushion, staring out at the blanket of stars that stretched over them, holding back the pain. He couldn't tell her that he went in every morning, alone, just to remind himself that she was _still breathing_ , still _alive._

What if she stops breathing, Mebuki had asked, but Kizashi anguished about her mind. Her body, as the doctors had told them gravely, was overworked; as if someone had sped up all of the motions of her growth and in turn, fried her pathways. But that only took time to heal, the doctors had said.

It was her mind, that was the problem. It was her mind that had shut down. The shock of the chakra to her system. The shock of _something_ to her system. It was that her brain was technically dead, and Kizashi did not wonder about whether or not she would stop breathing but that she wouldn't ever wake again.

That her body would work, and grow, and _live_ but everything that made his little girl _Haruna_ would be gone.

He came to a stop when a passing blur of green rushed in front of him. The smell of sweat, dirt and spandex immediately made him take a couple of steps backwards, paranoia rampant in his mind.

"Good day, sir!" Kizashi heard the Green Beast shout as he ran off, and he lifted a hand to wave him away.

"And to you," he answered quietly.

Kizashi looked up and found himself in front of the rotating hospital doors. It was a poor excuse for a medical facility, a long shot from the one they'd had before the Third Shinobi War, and for that, he was all the more bitter.

 _(What would you do,_ people would ask on sunny days by riverbanks, _if you could ask for anything in the world?_

And Kizashi would have answered, _save my daughter._ )

As he heaved himself up the steps, he thought about whether things would be different if the famed Lady Tsunade were here. Renown on the fronts of the war for her feats and ingenuity in the medical sector, Kizashi knew that there wasn't any way he could pay her for her services.

He remembered little of her; he had only been a teenager when she'd left and a genin-corps at that. He had been in the village carrying letters and documents for the Third, and the soon-to-be Fourth at the time, and he rarely, if ever, came across the blonde woman.

What Kizashi did remember of her was that she was tall, stately. She looked the exact mold of what a Clan Princess should look like: manicured fingers, sharp, gleaming amber eyes, the soft slant of red, red lips. Senju Tsunade was stunning with her regal features, high cheekbones, and silk kimonos.

He knew that she was the best medic in all the world. Or that is what they told themselves anyways. Perhaps, somewhere deep in a cave in the mountaintops of Iwa, there resided another; or even in the depths of Kiri's watery caverns; or Suna's scorching deserts. Nevertheless, Senju Tsunade was hailed as Konoha's best, and so became the best all over the world.

The receptionist greeted him with a slow nod of her head. Her eyes were fluttering closed as he walked past her, and she leaned her chin against her chest and every now and then, she let out a soft, low snore.

"Haruno-san," she mumbled when he stepped up to the granite counter top. Her brown eyes were lost, unfocused, and then she blinked, remembering herself. Pink hue flooded her cheeks.

"Haruno-san!" she squeaked, mortified. "If you are here already then it must be morning!"

Kizashi nodded. "I assume Fujiyama-sensei is working on his other cases?"

The receptionist—whose name he had never really bothered learning, he realized distantly—nodded frantically. Her brown eyes were wide and shaken. "Y-Yes. Yes, that is correct."

He waited there, for a minute, and yearned for a time where the hospital worked like a well-oiled machine. He stared at the young woman. Dark skin; she no doubt had some farmer blood in her—he nearly cracked a bitter smile. _Farmer's blood_ was just a pretty, dressed up name for _foreigner._ He was surprised they even let her stay in the view of the public. Her skin wasn't soft, and neither was her face. She was made of sharp edges and knocking turns, but there was a bashfulness to her face that made Kizashi want to shake her.

 _Let me see my child,_ he thought viciously. _I do not care for your skittishness._

By the grace of God, or some other foreign kami, the receptionist snapped out of her stupor.

"I apologize, Haruno-san." she inclined her head. "You may go up to your daughter's room."

He hesitated. His feet pointed towards the doorway, and he stared at the clinical whiteness of the room. The floor was a dull, plastic beige. It was scrubbed clean, as it was every night—he had spent enough days with his cheek pressed against the metal chairs to hear the squeak of the janitors' carts—and it smelled of bleach and chemicals. It made him want to breathe with his mouth open.

He didn't know why he hesitated.

Perhaps it was because he didn't want to go up the stairs to the elevator to find that she had stopped breathing. Perhaps it was because he couldn't bear to look at his baby anymore. Six months old, with a heady of downy coral hair, and pale, pale skin. If she opened her eyes, Kizashi wouldn't know what color they were.

Sakura's had settled mere weeks after her birth—a nebulous blue giving way to a brilliant, gemstone green. Mebuki had been so proud.

Haruna's eyes had stayed tempestuous. They churned with grey and silver and slivers of blue. Sometimes, he saw specks of black. The doctor told them she was just a little slow—they would soon see.

She had grown, if only a little.

Her features had smoothed out from the smudge of birth. Her nose was small, and upturned. Her lips were rosebud red, and finely shaped. Her lashes, black instead of Sakura's pink, were long and curling; to match the veritable mess of cowlicks that sat on her head. They always sprung back, even after Mebuki had brushed them down with water. Her hair was like his, pink and inconvenient, but duller than Sakura's; more of a coral-salmon-pink than anything and it clashed with the birthmarks on her face.

She always looked so small there, lying on the white sheets, her breath barely stirring the air around her.

"Haruno-san? Is there anything wrong?"

Kizashi jolted from his thoughts.

Perhaps, a little nagging voice whispered in the back of his mind, he didn't want to see her waste away any longer.

For a moment, he considered it. His heart beat in his chest, a tattooed tempo against his ribcage. His breathing rose. Fingernails dug deep into his palms.

…Except...except...

 _(My baby, my baby. This is my baby.)_

He looked back up at the receptionist with her smudged brown eyes.

Kizashi thought of Mebuki's eyes, so blue, stared up at him, _"Where do babies go when they die?"_

"No."

His steps felt heavy all the way to the elevator.

* * *

Enjoy! I wanted to write a take on Kizashi's feelings, cos I feel like he and Mebuki are ridiculously underrated in _Naruto_...like they were literally the only living parental guidance and they did nothing? with them?


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto.

* * *

How do you _define_ reality?

Maybe, if I had been able to Google, it would've said something along the lines of _the world or state of things as they actually exist._ Maybe, it would've told me something like this, _the state or quality of having existence, or substance._

Existence.

Reality was existence. Reality was an existence. Was my reality my existence?

Was my existence the reality?

I was a substance. Of what, I didn't know yet. A fever-dream, perhaps. A delusion. A hope. A sorrow. I was a substance; a human substance; a human _something_ ; a human…existence.

I was a human existence again.

 _Again._

How do you define a human existence? By the years of their life? By the thoughts they speak and think and feel? By their words; meaningful, beatific, pacifying; hurtful, agonizing, tortured. By their actions; kind, considerate, generous, gentle; brutish, threatening, hellish; apathetic, uncaring, passive.

Maybe, by the feeling of the _substances_ around you. The air in the wind. The dirt in the earth. The water in the ocean. The burn in the fire. Was it how you could touch things? The tracing of a finger, a tongue, a mouth, a leg, an arm, against something else? What was a something? A separate entity? A person?

What I knew was this. I was a substance. I was an existence again. A human existence. I had life that sparked in my chest, and bloomed in my mind, rippling over my body like a live current.

I was Life once more, Death having shed its cloak over me.

What did it mean to be human? Was I human any longer? Humanity passed in Death, they used to say Back Then. There was a hell, a heaven, a purgatory, a nothing. There was a whole other world, an afterlife, a boat, a Tartarus.

There was a whole other world where I became a human again, and I became substance again, with passive meaning, and _choice._

I had choice.

How do you accept a new reality?

When I had been little, Back Then, I remembered a funeral, if barely. The sky was dreary and raining, violent thunderclouds lurching above us, like a scorned god. The woman was crying, sobbing, screaming. Her hands clutched the coffin, nails breaking. Her body heaved, and shook, and trembled with anger. Sadness, rage, fury, bitterness, loss, _agony._ The woman was agony and pain. The woman was tragedy.

Four years later, a new husband sat on her arm, but the tired smile never left her face.

The woman was _human_ existence.

How do you accept a new reality?

When I had been older, Back Then, I remembered a train crossing. It was sunny, autumn, and the bitter nip of winter gripped my skin. Leaves were scattered across the train tracks, and laughter rang out behind me. A couple, young and joyous, and a scampering, little dog that barked too much to be charming. A ball rolled, and so did the dog's paws and the tracks ahead of them. There was a scream, a splatter of blood, and a horrifying dying whine.

Their faces were pale, somber, as the train conductor croaked out apologies.

They had been human existence. Defined by feeling; Tragedy. Anger. Loss. Bitterness. Fading Love. Defined by action; the curling of his hand against the other's. The lingering hands around their waists. Murmured words of pain.

They had been human existence.

I did not want to remember Death's loving hand wrapped around my throat. I did not want to remember the blood in the alley.

What I knew was this.

I felt their hands against my skin. The tubes wrapped around my arms, stuck down my throat, resting under my skin; a parasite of health. I felt the fear. Bitter, sharp, desperate. I felt the twitch of my muscles against the itchy sheets. The swallow of my throat. The contraction of my lungs in my chest.

What I knew was this.

I was substance again. I was existence again.

But was I human?

( _Humanity does not fall through the veil of death. It is trapped, and festers, and grows, until the soul must leave it behind, and continue without it.)_

…

Mebuki had one picture of the twins.

It had been difficult to get a photographer. There were no easy-access cameras, and very few knew how to operate them at all. The young man who had come had been stocky, his mouth a mulish line, and sported stormy eyes that flickered over the room too much to be innocent.

He came on a Thursday.

Kizashi had been out on the fields, toiling away, and had told her he'd be home in the evening, and she had wanted to surprise him.

It was his birthday the day after tomorrow.

She had asked the photographer his name. Kenji, he answered quietly. His hands were large on the camera. His nails were bitten down to the nailbeds. They shook a little.

Mebuki offered him tea, because she was a grateful hostess, if anything at all. She was tired, but those were the early days, when they hadn't known yet. Fertility hadn't ever been a problem in her family; her sisters and half-brother had had several children, although some of them no longer breathed air to tell the tale; she thought she was fine.

But those were the early days, and she smiled to ignore the rasping ache in her body, and gently lowered little Sakura into the crib next to her darling sister Haruna. They were such good girls, she remembered thinking, before heading to the kitchen to fix him a pot of steaming barley tea.

Kenji the photographer nodded in thanks. Where do you want them, he had asked. His voice was still quiet, soft, gentle. As if he couldn't bear to raise it any higher than that.

I'll hold them, she remembered telling him. Just one please, that's all.

 _Just one._

He nodded.

Mebuki picked Sakura up first, and her little angel wrapped her arms around her neck, and snuggled closer to her throat, a snuffle escaping her rosebud lips. She held her tightly, not wanting to hurt her, but never letting her fall. Haruna shifted when Mebuki reached for her, as she always did. Stormy eyes flickered open into slits before a cute pout settled on her lips.

Mebuki would never admit it, but there was different off about her child. She knew Kizashi didn't see it. No, Kizashi loved little Haruna more than anything in the whole wide world. But there were days when Mebuki stared down at the girls in their little cribs and wondered.

Haruna wasn't the same as Sakura. She didn't smile. Not once. She didn't laugh, or giggle, or squeal. She was silent. Observant. She watched with tumultuous, fluctuating eyes and sometimes, Mebuki wondered. She wondered about the flicker of quickening intellect behind those eyes. She wondered about the way she soaked in Sakura's attention, but nothing of much else. She wondered about the whimpers that left her daughter's throat when she slept.

Mebuki wondered, but there was nothing she could do.

So, she watched, something heavy and familiar blooming in her chest, as she watched Haruna reach for her sister; as if Sakura was the only thing in the entire world that mattered in that moment.

Haruna never reached for anyone but Sakura, and Mebuki tried to lessen the sting of rejection. She loved her, she swore she did, but Mebuki never lied to herself about the uneasiness running rampant in her chest.

There was something _different_ about her youngest daughter.

Something…off.

Are you ready, Kenji had asked. Mebuki had nodded, shifting Haruna closer, and her smile strained as a small, little fist traversed her chest to grip Sakura's hair.

The flash of the camera was blinding.

…

"Mebu-chan…this isn't healthy."

Her older sister was looking at her with concern in her wide brown eyes. She held Sakura to her chest, hand splayed over her back. She was sleeping soundly, cheeks red. Her hair was fluffy today, and it reminded Mebuki of Haruna's untamable locks, cowlicks and all.

Her gaze broke away from her daughter.

"What isn't healthy, Megumi?"

Her sister gave her a stony glance. "You haven't gone to see her yet."

Mebuki stiffened, hands freezing over the produce. The market was to begin in a couple of hours, and Kizashi hadn't gotten back yet from his visit, but she'd heard him leave, just like she always did; quarter to four in the morning.

She pretended like she wasn't aware of the fact that he went to sit in that cold, sterile ward on the fourth floor, to watch their daughter fading away under the blankets, the tiny little cot, those long, piercing needles.

She was six and a half months old now. Give or take.

Her eyes were dry as she answered, but her mouth remained twisted in a mockery of a smile. "She's resting. I want her to recover—I might get in the way of that."

"Haruna-chan isn't getting—"

"Don't say that." Mebuki cut in. Her hands were trembling. She thought of the way her daughter was so small, so vulnerable. She stared a hole into the crate of their newest cherry tomatoes. "Don't say that, Megumi. She's…she's recovering."

She could feel it, that pitying, breaking stare on the back of her neck. It felt the same—full of compassion, empathy. Mebuki only felt shame. Deep, unparalleled shame. Her daughter wasn't healthy enough to live without sustenance. Her daughter, her baby, wasn't healthy enough to _live._ Mebuki hadn't been enough, hadn't given enough to her so that she'd make it on the other side and _live_. Mebuki hadn't been enough to birth two healthy babies.

"She woke up." Mebuki said quietly, and she felt her older sister's eyes sharpen, a question hovering in the air. "The doctor said she woke up. She garbled something, something like words. She's not old enough to start speaking. But they gave her water. And they'd spoken to her like she could understand and maybe, maybe if I wait, maybe she'll wake up—"

Megumi's hand rested on her back lightly. "Breathe, imouto. I'm sure she will be fine."

She nodded.

"She'll wake up," Megumi's voice was soft, gentle. "And you'll get your little angel back again."

Mebuki couldn't look at her as they stacked up the produce, and as the morning sun began to dawn down into the square, she pretended like her smile wasn't shaking.

…

Her sister had made her leave Sakura with her for the day, after their younger sister Midori took over the stall, and she felt oddly empty. Like something important, something crucial had been taken away from her, but she knew that if she marched back to Megumi's house, her mother would be waiting, eyes fierce, and Mebuki didn't particularly want to face the whirl-wind that was Haruno Gen.

If she did, she'd end up a crying, shaking, sobbing mess and wouldn't be able to handle anything until her little angel woke again.

So Mebuki sat on a bench, near the playground, and stared at the ground.

Kizashi had come by earlier that afternoon, and when he'd kissed her, arms circling her waist, she had to stop herself from crying as she smelt the acid chemicals of bleach, soap and something undefinable.

He'd said hello to little Sakura, who'd gurgled at her father, but remained subdued, as she always had since her sister's stay at the hospital and then he'd departed for the fields, promising Mebuki that he'd be back in time for dinner with a small smile.

Megumi had told her to 'relax', go to a spa, or the hot springs, just to breathe in the natural bath salts and soak for a while, but she couldn't. She'd occupied herself every hour of every day since her little angel had been admitted to the hospital, and although her sisters had tried to get her to breathe, to talk about what she was feeling, to let it all out, she'd merely shaken her head and gone back to stacking books, or crates or folding laundry.

She stared at the ground now, listening to everything, everyone around her. It was a happy day today for many. The sun was shining, although it was getting rather low in the sky now, and the street lights were slowly but surely flickering on. The children in the streets—ninja and civilian—got more subdued as the sun sunk lower into the sky, and Mebuki just stared at the lengthening shadow of the rock near her sandal.

When she glanced at her watch again, she realized it was nearing eight o'clock in the evening, and it was time to head back to Megumi's house (and risk seeing her mother) to pick up her daughter.

…

She was nearing the hospital when she felt the tremors.

At first, it didn't seem like anything was wrong. People were still ambling about even though the sun had set, and the moon was tilting further into the sky; the evening was warm for October, and she'd seen many citizens buying ice creams and popsicles and splitting watermelon slices, happy smiles on their faces.

There was a sort of stillness in the air; like the world was on the brink of something tumultuous, life-changing; the wait before the fall, before the tip into the screaming void. It sat stiffly against her skin, and she shivered, despite the musk of summer still sitting in the air.

And then, there was a flash of blinding, searing light, and a roar that echoed across the valley like a crack of rolling, thundering lightning.

Mebuki couldn't gasp, couldn't even _move_ as it rose into the darkening sky, burning it a deep, crimson, waves of pure energy swishing and blooming around it. She couldn't breathe as she saw it form slowly, thousands of booming rumbles drilling themselves into her head as it amassed itself into a head, and then four legs, a tail, and a snout.

 _Nine Tails._ Mebuki thought distantly. She'd read about it in school, fingers tracing the picture in the academy textbook. _Nine-Tailed Fox. Biju. Chakra-monster._

There was that moment of pause. Of hesitation. Mebuki swore she saw the monster's eyes shatter in pain. There was an instance, a single, split moment, when she thought it would stay there, still, unmoving, despite its newfound freedom.

And then it screamed, and Mebuki clapped her hands over her ears and hoped she would make it to—

 _Sakura._ Fear lanced through her, but she remembered that she was with her sister and mother. Haruno Gen and Megumi would take care of her. Head to the shelters and make sure she stayed safe—

Lightning bolted through her. A terror like she'd never known shook her to her very soul.

 _Haruna._

She staggered, the sounds of the screaming and the roaring and the ozone of its chakra making her woozy, vision blurring with dark spots. Her mouth was dry, lips cracking, as she panted, trying to stay upright.

The hospital. She had to make it to the hospital.

Kizashi was too far away, outside the gates of Konoha, ploughing the fields—he couldn't reach their baby.

Mebuki ground her teeth together. Tried to blink through the deafening noise that sang like a shrill, sonic drill. The chakra was overwhelming, burning through her, but Mebuki screamed her frustration through clenched teeth. Sobs built in her throat. Her eyes stung.

She waded through it as fast as she could, swaying like a drunk, or a woman trying to find her sea legs, and she stumbled, half-running, half-dragging herself to the hospital. People were still standing half in shock, half in horror, as the figure of the Nine-Tailed fox rose above them, standing high and proud, a wrath like no other burning in its unholy eyes.

Then came the sound of screaming inarticulate noise, and the smell of Sulphur, the heat of fire and burning, and the street exploded. People screamed, and they ran, away, away, to wherever they could reach, and Mebuki stumbled, falling when an older man shoved into her.

She hit her hand on sharp debris, an iron nail ramming itself through her palm. She wanted to scream in her horror, her fear, her agony, but she gritted her teeth, panting, gasping as she tore it out as quickly as she could.

The street was in a mass-panic, and she could hear that shrill screech of fire and brimstone filling the air again, louder than was possible, and when the feeling of wet and warm filled her ears, dulling her ability to hear, she knew her eardrums had burst.

A house collapsed next to her. Shrapnel embedded itself into her thigh, and she grunted, turning away in horror and fear as she saw another mother sobbing, bellowing for her child; her eyes were wide in panic, and she was digging through the crushed, falling rock as it shifted around her, name on her lips.

She stumbled and ran and tripped and ignored. She ignored the sounds of her people dying. Of their screams of help, of hopelessness, of agony and fear and grief.

The world was exploding around her, melting, burning to the ground and she was running, running, running to find her, her baby, her little angel—her little _Haruna._

Haruno Mebuki ran into the hospital, blood on her hands, hair tangling around her face, a rusting pipe emerging from her thigh.

Her eyes burned like fire, a steady, driving determination, despite the fear in her pinched face.

She didn't look back.

…

I woke to the sound of sharp, high whistling, a pitch so shrill that tears came to my eyes.

I was in hell.

The world was on fire. I could smell it—that stench of fire and brimstone, the screams of the dying around me, the way the air seemed to crackle and burst with electricity.

I could hear fumbling and screeching and sobs echoing around me, faintly, as if dulled by my shock, my utter discombobulation.

I wasn't screaming. I couldn't scream. It was as if everything inside me had frozen, and no matter what happened, all I could do was sit still and immobile, unable to even flinch at the heat of the fire outside.

I was going to die, I realized with a rising hysteria. I could feel the shock and the irony rise on my tongue and I wanted to laugh then, because I'd just _lived,_ and it was only now that I was even awake for it.

I was going to die a baby, a child, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

Chakra monster. It was tall and orange and obscene as it moved, and I wouldn't ever forget the sight of those angry, horrendous red eyes in this lifetime or the next.

 _Kyuubi,_ I thought as my heart seemed to burst in my tiny chest, _how could I forget the kyuubi?_

There was single second of silence that seemed to echo into the void; then the world, the sky, the forces of good or evil or both came crashing down and all I could do was blink.

Then the hospital door was bursting open, and a woman was slumped there, eyes wild. They were a singular type of blue, one that I hazily recognized. Her hair was a tangled mess; blonde curls were tangled around her face, cut short.

I think I gaped. My face had gone slack.

She stared at me, "Haruna-chan…" her voice was tentative, soft, and I could hear it somehow over the sound of the earth shaking around me, us. "You're…you're awake…"

 _Mother_. I recognized the voice. _Mother—Haruno Mebuki._

She moved quicker than I could see, and the needles under my skin, the tube in my throat was gone, and I was clutched in her embrace faster than I could think.

"I've got you, Haru-chan, I've got you now," she was saying, and I felt something slick seeping into my hair. It was warm, sticky. I didn't dare think it was blood. "You're awake my sweet, darling, beautiful angel…beautiful brown eyes…your grandmother's eyes…"

I whined into her embrace. I was shaking in fear.

 _Move!_ I wanted to scream at her, _get to safety!_

She held me tighter. "We're gonna…" she wheezed, trembling. "We're going to be safe now, Haru. I'll get you to the shelter…we'll be fine…we'll be fine…"

The sounds of despair, of raging, horrifying screams echoed around us, and Mebuki, mother, held me so tight I could barely breathe, as she stumbled through the halls. She was breathing hard, and by now, I'd seen the hole in her hand, and her blood was matted in my curls, staining my pale, pale skin.

My sight was blurry, and I was trembling, shaking against her, as she brought us closer and closer to the exit. Around us, nurses were wheeling out patients, and doctors were stabilizing the wounded, but not effectively—there was only mass-panic, the kind that made all logic and rationale escape from your head, and you could only listen to your instincts as they screamed for you to _run!_

"I've got you, my sweet angel." Mebuki, my mother, said. She took a step outside, left leg lagging. "We'll be…fine…"

A blaze of orange and red and _fire_ crashed seared past us, and the hospital collapsed, the world along with it, around us.

…

Mebuki tried hard not to scream as she realized she was trapped. She couldn't feel her legs anymore. Her arm was lodged tight underneath her and she panicked, until her eyes settled onto the slumped form of her baby.

She gasped in sweet relief, and she felt herself sag into the ground, the cool touch of concrete clearing her head somewhat.

Her daughter's eyes were brown. She smiled at that. Her mother would be so very happy.

Her vision was blurring, breaking, black spots filling the gaps where things should be, and her breath wasn't quick enough.

She was rasping when she felt a cool palm touch her cheek. She forced herself to look.

Haruna had crawled to her. She looked at her with her big, innocent, brown eyes brimming with tears and horror and Mebuki tried her hardest not to cry. She was becoming still, cold, and the numbness was spreading, up her spine, to her neck.

"Baby…" she said, and her voice was hoarse from the smoke, the stress. Her baby was crying. She wanted to reach her, to placate her. It had been months since she'd held her.

Her heart slowly broke as she realized she wasn't going to get to know her little angels. That she wasn't going to get to know how Haruna's eyes would crease in happiness, how Sakura would jump and squeal with joy when she realized that her twin was back, back, back, and the light would reappear in those listless green eyes.

 _I'm going to die,_ Mebuki thought faintly. _I'm never going to know my children. Never going to soothe their wounds, help them with their homework, get them dressed for their first day of school. Never going to see them fall in love, get married, have little pink-haired grandbabies._

Haruna was crying harder now, and she was surprised that she could _hear it_ over the sound of the screaming, the crying, the loss.

She desperately wanted to reach out, but her arm was trapped and her other was broken, unable to inch further.

"Haruna…my baby…" she choked out. She felt the blood drip down her chin. "I love you…love you so much…my beautiful, beautiful…girl…" tears filled her eyes, but she wouldn't cry. "…you're going to be…going to be wonderful…so smart…and brave…and good…"

The haze of the chakra was gone now. The night was cooler. The sounds of the kyuubi were no longer.

Mebuki smiled at her baby. "…you won't remember…me…but I loved you…loved— _love_ —you…more than you could ever know…my pretty…pretty petal…"

Her eyes were fluttering closed, and her words were slurring into each other now, almost gibberish.

"…love you…sweet one…precious one…"

There was a sound of something turning over, something being lifted, but all she could feel was her baby's cool hand on her cheek.

As she faded away, mind desperately trying to linger onto the feeling over her child's fingers, she hoped that she would see her again.

But not too soon.

Next to her, a child wailed, and the universe shifted.

* * *

Literally been decades since I've uploaded this, but I'm determined to finish this :) enjoy, my lovelies! Also, check out another fic I'm writing with the amazing, stupendous **Isedy** : To Rise and Rise Again.

Also, yeah, Mebuki's dead. Background Canon has officially been destroyed.


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